


Cold Cold Man

by friendlytroll



Category: HLVRAI - Fandom, Half-Life, Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: (for bubby n coomer), Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, OT3, Smoking, chronological fuckery, gman good dad, gman got a crush what he do, introspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27846182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlytroll/pseuds/friendlytroll
Summary: He found one such little railed observing space to watch, curious, as one of Tommys older colleagues picked up the framed photo from Tommys desk, scrutinizing it with a scowl.“Wait, where the hell did the fucking spook who was in this yesterday go?” Despite the scientists rather sour looking countenance, the words did not seem truly aggressive. Just vague curiosity, with an acidic edge.---Mr. Coolatta is much more used to observing then he is being observed in turn. Partially, this is because he often doesn't particularly exist. And were it not for becoming a Father, he would certainly exist a great deal less. This may explain, perhaps, why some of Tommy's new co-workers taking notice of him is.Interesting.Somewhat distracting.Obviously not something he can do anything about. Certainly not. And so long as he doesn't, it's not as if anyone ELSE would do something about it. ...Right?
Relationships: Bubby/Dr. Coomer (Half-Life), Bubby/Dr. Coomer/The G-Man (Half-Life), Tommy Coolatta & The G-Man
Comments: 24
Kudos: 68





	Cold Cold Man

**Author's Note:**

> Slaps down like 3k words that delve into who and what I think the Gman is, without breaking eye contact. Next chapter will be gayer, just need to edit it together.

Sometimes, there is no one in the photos on Tommy Coolattas desk, except for Tommy. 

Well. Not _no one_. Sunkist features in many such photos; all the way from little golden lump being bottle fed, to gangly teen, to big fluffy adult. And of course his siblings- especially Adrian Coolatta, Tommy’s beloved baby brother, in much the same arrangement as Sunkist. A kind of charming triptych of nervous toddler, shy teen, and proud newly graduated xeno-zoologist- and woe to any co-worker who only meant to be polite in their enquiries who didn’t realize the depth of Tommys enthusiasm for his brother's thesis work. 

(Tommy, somewhat to the surprise of others, was a _middle_ sibling. His elder brother _also_ worked at black mesa, though since Arne had a different surname not many people were aware of this.)

So, in many ways, no matter when one happens to look at Tommy Coolatta’s rather enthusiastic collection of framed family photos, he’s never _truly_ alone in most of them.

But sometimes, there is *not* a suited man radiating pride like the *sun* in them. He is not there, gently holding the hand of a Very Small Adrian Shepherd. He is not next to Tommy in his graduating robes. Indeed, at times, Sunkist (age 6months) is jumping excitedly to thin air in her frame, and not in the middle of leaping into her Grandpa's arms.

Because of this, sometimes, in the past, Tommys co workers have asked incredulous edged questions about why, exactly, Tommy has a picture of himself as a baby on his own desk. And Tommy has found that the _funniest_ answer was to say, as seriously as he could possibly manage, that he was a _very_ cute baby, actually?? 

They rarely glanced at his photos a second time; or if they did, they didn’t take notice, which Tommy considers a shame. That specific photo was one of his favorites. Because in the _proper_ version his dad was laughing. He had his jacket off and everything, gently cradling Tommy as a baby, his tie clenched tight in a very tiny little hand. 

It wasn’t exactly _okay_ that no one noticed, exactly, but Tommy was used to it. People just didn’t always remember his dad. When he was younger he’d been madder about it, because he loved his dad a lot. He was a good dad. He didn’t… he still doesn’t like the assumptions people made about it. He didn’t like that his dad always seemed to be alone. He’d just gotten tired of trying to explain, and winding up liking people less when the explaining didn’t work. 

So he just joked about it. At least then he could still like people. 

But once, it’d gone a little different. And he had wound up liking THOSE people very, very much. 

Tommy Coolatta and his Dad actually met up, without fail, at least once a week. At least, from Tommy’s perspective, it was once a week. He has something of a sense that it’s a little longer for his dad sometimes. But only sometimes. Because it’s _important_ ; which was a lesson Tommy had taken deeply to heart. Some things were important. Living in step, a little, with the people you loved was important. 

Making the time was important. 

It wasn’t always something fancy, exactly. Sometimes they just made a meal together at home. Which, _was_ the house Tommy had grown up in, so in theory it was his dads house? But it had always been for Tommy, and now it was HIS house, sort of, but he liked his dad being there when he was around. Even if his dad kept to his study most of the time, when he wasn’t working. 

But it was one of those times that he’d been absolutely, hand-flappingly excited to recount the story. They were at home together, in the kitchen full of bright primary colors and measuring cups shaped like funny things, where someone like Mr. Coolatta probably would have looked completely out of place to anyone _but_ his children. 

This time, Mr. Coolatta had been patiently putting together a marinade while Tommy caught him up on the situation- his sleeves inexplicably perfectly unstained and neat where they were perfectly cuffed at his elbows. He was, at this point, very good at listening, and always had a sense of a head tilted gently towards the person he was listening to. Attentive, encouraging, and always certain to turn his head to watch just as a gesture is performed. (Or, when Tommy was VERY young, when he was about to try to do something exciting on a swingset, or VERY impressively jump from the couch ALL the way to a pillow on the floor). 

“See, um- Okay, so- so I’m on the new project! And, I think I like it, it's interesting a-and they need someone to oversee the testing, but, see, one of them- um, I think his name is. B.. .Bub? Bobby? He was by my new desk, and he picked up one of my photos, and -”

The Gman listened. 

It’d been when he’d been moving to a new project, one of his co-workers had picked the frame up and asked- 

_“Wait, where the hell did the fucking spook who was in this yesterday go?”_

_Tommy wasn’t sure what he’d said in return- a quirk of Tommy’s way of paying attention, which people often misunderstood. Tommy paid attention to what was around him. More or less. He just didn’t always pay attention to what he was doing. He probably did remember what he’d said fine enough, but because he didn’t have the wording quite_ **_exactly_ ** _right, had couched it in uncertainty._

_Tommy doesn’t like saying he ‘knows’ something when he isn’t truly sure._

“Tommy, would… you like me. To go, check?” Mr. Coolatta interrupted gently. Tommy thought a second, and nodded brightly, drumming his hands on the cool kitchen-counter tiles. 

“Y-yeah! If it’s not, any trouble! it was REALLY interesting!!” he says brightly. His father nodded slightly, taking a moment to wash his hands. 

“Not, at all, Tommy. It is, never, any trouble” he says, very gently scooting the mixing bowl filled with marinating barbecue cuts further away from the edge of the counter. Sunkist was a very *good* dog, but all the same. 

Then he simply turns.

_And he had stepped through the air, to the side, knowing he would be back instantaneously to Tommy’s point of view._

_And he was quite used to the halls of black mesa. There is even ample time enough to roll his cuffs back down, his suit jacket manifesting back in place. He was not on the clock, really, but just in case. Luckily, Black Mesa is full of odd little railing lined hallways, and handy windows…_

_He found one such little railed observing space to watch, curious, as one of Tommys older colleagues picked up the framed photo from Tommys desk, scrutinizing it with a scowl._

_“Wait, where the hell did the fucking spook who was in this yesterday go?” Despite the scientists rather sour looking countenance, the words did not seem truly aggressive. Just vague curiosity, with an acidic edge._

_Tommy had been_ **_extremely_ ** _startled, but not, his father suspected, in a way others would take note of. A slightly owlish peer, and a soft “Oh….. uh.” that hung a little longer in the air then usual; to most it probably registers as ‘mild befuddlement’._

_“Are… you. Sure?” Is as far as Tommy gets as an answer, and it pained his father a little to see how uneasy he is with the deception by implication. He can lie, but often. Panicked, slightly. Once, a younger Tommy had been unwilling to admit why he’d come home late and claimed to have ‘come back from legoland’. He had been 23 at the time, and mostly sober._

_“What?” Tommys co-worker snapped. “Of course I’m fucking sure- HAROLD! Get over here.”_

_“Hello, Professor!” one of the scientists working in the background had been working on, from Gmans curious glance, the safe disposal protocol for outer-dimensional material, but perked up as he was addressed._

_“It’s Doctor, you fucking animal- do you remember this photo?”_

_The colleague named ‘Harold’ came to join the first._

_“Oh, yes! I most certainly do! Tommy was a VERY cute baby, wasn’t he?” ‘Harold’ said, with a cheerful, amused sincerity._

_“That’s not- I mean, yes.I don’t even really *give* a shit about babies, but that’s an A+ there. Scientifically.” the tall one had said, endearing himself to the listening Mr. Coolatta almost immediately. “But also, yesterday there was someone IN the photo WITH the baby.” he explains, tapping the glass, in the curiously empty upper half of the frame._

_“_ **_Was there_ ** _...?” ‘Harold’ leaned in to look closer- and above, unseen, Mr. Coolata stood, imperceptible, just a little bit straighter._

_“I’m certain of it. We were JUST talking about him yesterday on break, remember?” The one who was a ‘Doctor’ and not a ‘Professor’ replied, gesturing slightly._

_“..._ **_oh?_ ** _Oh! That’s right, I remember now. You called him a Dilf.” Harold replies snapping his fingers, speaking with absolutely no remorse. This earned him a smack to the shoulder, which he responded to with a little peal of giggles._

_“Oh!, Well, uh.” Tommy had snorted a little, and then made a face. “Gross.” he said. Mr. Coolatta promptly decide to not mention this part of the conversation to his son, when he returned._

_“It’s, uh…” Tommy steepled his fingers together. “Just… kind of happens sometimes? Um. He’s- he’s out on *business* right now, so…” Tommy explained, clearly hoping that honest vagueness would be alright._

_And his colleagues had looked at each other a moment, quietly inclining their heads towards one another. Harold had stroked his moustache down, and the tall one had rocked on his feet just the once. And in such a way something clearly passed between them._

_“Sure, why the fuck not.”_

_“Everyone's family circumstances are different, Tommy! And I think that’s wonderful.”_

_That was all the information that Gman had needed. Possibly a little more than needed, even. But he didn’t have the heart to chide himself about it, just yet._

_He’d returned to the moment to faithfully tell Tommy what he had said, so Tommy could finish telling him the story, while he’d prepared the potato salad for their barbeque. And he had smiled, and chuckled with complete sincerity, and told him yes, it *was* very funny that his new colleagues had noticed._

_And he learned their names. Dr. Harold Coomer, and Dr. Bubby ‘Uh, actually I don’t know if that’s his first name or his l-last name…?’. They had both worked at Black Mesa a ‘Long time’. And Tommy likes them._

It is now, and the Gman exists again. And he is thinking a great deal about that first moment, when he first came to meet his son's colleagues. Or. Perhaps, he is thinking a great deal about that moment, and _as such_ must exist within the correct dimension to have such thoughts. It is… some time, since then. It happened when Tommy first transferred. And now is after Black Mesa ceases, for all intents and purposes, to be a part Mr. Coolattas job description. Landmarks such as these are easier for him than a calendar.

The Gman decides, as he often does, that if he must exist inside chronological time, it would at least be an improvement to do so from an easy chair.

The space he is in is… something of a void, in many respects. A between not of time, but of space, that he can root conveniently where he wishes it to be. But over time it has gained something past a simple utility. Marks of personal touch. A leather couch, a desk- both it, and the absolute absence of a wall around it quite crowded with photos of his own, mainly featuring the fine genre of his children, and some Nice Birds. 

It was a room of things he did not strictly need. Shelves of books, even though he could have just ‘known’ the information. A liquor cabinet, even though he had to decide to be affected by it. He didn’t need his chair to rest in, didn’t need a warm fireplace to make the space warm. He certainly didn’t need a coat rack, seeing as his clothing was a part of his function, not really separate objects. 

And there were others- _his_ ‘colleagues’, who surely would have thought him a fool for keeping any of them. Or perhaps thought he was crafting an unnecessarily artful facade. 

Sometimes, when he was in a generous mood, Mr. Coolatta found it within himself to pity them for it. 

But overall, the space is his Study, and is a space that had first been made this way because he had understood it was how a human of his approximate age and status presented themselves. And this had _mattered_ to him. It still does. It adds a dimensionality to his self-presentation he enjoys. Rank. Purpose. Age. These things, regardless of the culture and beings he interacted with, presented a kind of...coordinate, of a kind. An approximation of himself. A translation.

He had _survived_ to be old. He had lived to attain his rank. And he had mastered his purpose. That was ‘him’, as best as he could understand.

And so he had absently laid out the tokens and trappings of these things. A space made up of the right symbols. Much like the briefcase he held (rank, status, officiality, business), it afforded him the right _shape_ in human consciousness. He remembered, sometimes, that when he’d started he would assume he would eventually simply… move on, and find how he needed to translate himself for the next job. 

He does not know, anymore, if that will ever be, now. He is different. And so, too, is his study.

Time has worn a sincerity into the space. The desk’s drawers have filled with files of information easier to find there then in his own head, and little toys one can play with to help make the world feel less loud, and gifts ranging from interesting rocks all the way to lovingly chosen ties. Crayon has been scribbled up an invisible abyssal wall here and there, all rocket ships and dogs and dinosaurs and happy smiling suns. The couch is worn in with use and scratched with little puppy claws. The pointless display books in his shelves have all been replaced with photo albums, and books with cracks in the spines from being sincerely read, and held wide, the better to be seen by little eyes. Books sit there now bearing his children's names, that may as well have shone with a light only he could see. 

He is different. But not completely. He is still ‘A Businessman’. He is older, and makes deals, and is cunning, and possibly morally questionable at best simply for holding the position he does. But he is also a ‘Father’. 

Also, and, perhaps, first.

Once, nervous and holding a fragile little new Person who seemed to also be his very heart, outside his chest, he had been quite desperate to learn how to correctly _be_ a Father. The notion that he could fail that little life had taught him terror. But he had not needed to re-define himself artificially, in the end. He just. Was.

Because it hadn’t been up to him. It had been up to the small hand that had grasped his finger, and in the blurry eyes that had looked into his own, and the resolve in his chest that _he would do this._

But some things he has kept, from the notion of ‘Father’. Little rituals he has found enjoyable, or useful even if he is not sure he executes them correctly. Barbequing, and mixing drinks, and being fiercely if not embarrassingly proud of his children every chance he is granted. The notion of ‘relaxing after a hard day's work’, as well. Taking off his jacket, and perhaps even his tie, and allowing himself to soften just a little.

And recently, he’s begun to roll up his sleeves a little more… roughly. A push upwards that bunches messily. He does so now as he absently looks over his liquor cabinet, sitting on the very edge of his chair, leaning forward as he thinks. 

Dr Coomer chuckled under the yellowish, bright Chuck E. Cheese lights when he firmly rolled the Gmans sleeves up to his elbow, insisting it was ‘illegal’ to play pool with a suit jacket on. He also, however, claimed that anyone doing so was ‘a cop’, which had confused Gman in a way that had made it very easy to laugh. Especially as they were, in fact, playing skee-ball.

And Dr. Coomer had laughed with him; a bright, powerful sound that crackled in the middle, and he had slapped Gman on the back with force enough it would, surely, have sent a normal man to his knees. And it had occurred to Mr. Coolatta, that he was a plummy little _nuclear reactor_ of a man in very nearly every way. 

In the present, Mr. Coolatta thumbs open a pack of cigarettes- white, marked with a plain black triangle. They, like alcohol, only affect him if he chooses to let them. But he has in the past enjoyed the smell, and the little ritual, and what it added to his concept. He had quit, for a long time, because he absently understood it was bad for children, but. He has felt… something of a craving. 

Dr. Bubby had also laughed when Mr. Coolattas sleeves were shoved up, and brandished a little pack of dark-papered cigarillos at him, clearly uncaring about any Chuck E Cheese entertainment establishment property rules on the matter. He already smelled like smoke in a different way. Smoke, and ozone. 

When Mr. Coolatta had politely taken one, he’d grinned, sharp and pleased. 

“So not a total boy scout, huh? Good.” He drawled. It was a literal sharpness. Bubby’s teeth were sharp the way sharks were- but crowded in, crooked and overlapping here and there. He hadn’t asked if the Gman needed his cigarette lit; he’d just snapped his fingers and a patch of oxygen had erupted into flame.

Both of those things had happened in fairly neat succession; sleeves rolled up. A cigarette on his lips. The light soft and warm in the Chuck E. Cheese as a skee-ball had been placed in one hand, and a mallet torn free from a whack-a-mole game into the other. 

“...I, admit, gentlemen, I am not sure I know the rules for this variant of pool.” he’d said, amused. And Dr Coomer had leaned in, conspiratorially, shielding his mouth with one hand

“ **Well I don’t see any fucking cops around here.** ” Dr. Coomer had said, eyes crinkling. “ **Do you?** ” and then Dr. Coomers eyebrows raised a little, extending an invitation to conspiracy. 

Dr. Bubby had snickered. It might have been the meanest laugh the Gman has yet heard from any human. 

He takes a deep breath back in the present, leaning back with a cigarette to his lips again and tells himself he is nursing a mild interest. Healthy curiosity. He’d given his word not to get too involved with humans again. Let alones one involved with any event he’d needed to oversee. 

The only issue was that the only person he had given his word to on this matter was himself. And when, really, had _that_ shady son of a bitch ever done anything to prove he could be trusted? 

...he had tried. He really had. So long as Tommy was still working in Black Mesa; so long as they were. Tommy had _liked_ it there. And he had already been juggling the interests of his employers against that. That alone took enough attention he hardly had any to be spared. 

The problem was, that depended on the idea that so long as _he_ didn’t do anything, the world would not stop and take notice of _him_. 

...Or maybe the problem was, now that the resonance cascade was over, he did not. Really. Have such excuses, anymore? His son was safe. The future was secured, until whatever time it wouldn’t be, possibly retroactively. But he couldn’t plan for _that_ , so…? 

So. What was that phrase? Idle hands… 

The Gman inhales slowly, eyes falling closed, as he considers his situation. He exhales, and watches the smoke, every mote of it carrying memories of sunlight on growing leaves, somewhere quite far away.

The technically unnecessary phone that laid on his desk, all shiny black bakelite and rotary dial (because it Meant the right thing), suddenly felt both very threatening, and very, very beguiling, all at once. 

While he was still considering his options, it had the audacity to ring of its own accord, and as a result, he _very_ nearly swallowed his cigarette.


End file.
